


Matrimony

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Bisexual Character, Flowers, Insecurity, Love, M/M, Marriage, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 04:15:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9700619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: While a guest at a wedding, an encounter with the jealous and unhappy best man causes Moriarty to consider again if he is truly what Moran wants.





	

Moriarty wonders why he came here really, to watch two people go through their strange, legally sanctioned mating ritual. Now that the ceremony is over he is left to stand to the side, clutching a champagne glass and feeling rather self-conscious even though he doubts more than one person is paying the slightest bit of attention to him. Social gatherings of this nature are hardly his forte. They exhaust him, even though he can play at being polite and charming when he must. He is not entirely sure either why he was even invited. Perhaps he was only wanted to make up the numbers on the groom's side, the man in question, Albert Morrison, apparently having little family of his own compared to his bride. He wishes that Moran were here but it would have appeared very strange indeed and have drawn unwanted attention had he brought the colonel along to the wedding of a man Moran does not know.

Moriarty is wondering how much longer he needs to stay for before he can withdraw without being criticised for leaving too early, when the one man who has been looking at him wanders over. His surname, Moriarty recalls, is Johnstone, close friend of the man very recently wed. He was there doing his duty, smiling broadly during the ceremony, appearing jovial and helping everything to run smoothly. But the professor had noted the sadness in this man's eyes even then, when he glanced away, thinking that nobody else was looking at him as his dearest friend went through his marriage vows.

“You look as uncomfortable here as I feel,” Johnstone remarks. He too clutches a champagne glass, though his is nearly empty.

“I suspect I may only have been invited out of politeness,” Moriarty tells him. “Morrison and I are... hardly close.”

“Bertie,” Johnstone says, almost to himself, and smiles wistfully. “Poor Bertie.”

“Why poor?”

Johnstone pulls a face. “Marriage, my man, it's the end.”

“Of what?”

“Why, of a man's freedom, of course!” Johnstone throws up his hand, splattering the tiny amount of champagne in his glass up the wall. “Oops,” he says, laughing. “But listen, listen... Moriarty, isn't it?”

“It is.”

Johnstone reaches across and clasps the lapel of Moriarty's jacket. The professor quietly suppresses the urge to pull away, disliking being touched without his consent. He is not convinced even that he wishes to have a conversation with such a man, and yet... something about the intensity, the sadness too he can still clearly read in Johnstone's countenance has him intrigued, despite his revulsion.

“Moriarty, my man.” Johnstone fixes his rather unsteady gaze on the professor's. “He'll never be the same again now he's wed. No man is.”

 “Indeed?” Moriarty wonders if there is some way to disentangle Johnstone's hand from his jacket without entirely putting the man off his stride, for he finds himself curious to hear what he has to say.

“None,” his new associate confides, leaning in a bit closer, exhaling breath that smells strongly of alcohol. “Marriage changes them. Not even marriage. _Love_.” He sneers this word out. “Then what do I matter after that? Even though he and I have been best friends since we were boys! I cannot compete with her with her...” He waves his hands vaguely in the general direction of the blushing bride. “ _Everything_. He will play the loving husband, soon no doubt the doting father also. The time he spends with me will become less and less until some day soon we shall likely become no more than ships passing in the night.” He straightens up, wearing a look of scorn upon his face. “We are all doomed that way, men like us.”

Moriarty compresses his lips together, unsure that he likes being viewed as some manner of kindred spirit by this fellow. What does he care really for him and his supposedly ill-fated friendship? And yet, unavoidably, he cannot stop thoughts of Moran from slipping into his mind. Sometimes the professor is all too aware how much he seems to be lacking compared to his companion – lacking in sexual desire; lacking in romantic feeling. Moriarty is perfectly willing to participate in certain sexual acts or acts generally deemed to be romantic, but what if Moran comes to perceive this some day as him merely going through the motions? What if he comes to lament the lack of genuine desire behind those actions? Or even that for all their closeness they cannot legally wed? Moran is his dearest friend, his only real friend in fact, and his near-constant companion. Therefore to lose Moran to a partner who desired him in the same manner that Moran desired them, particularly to one who Moran could legally marry, it would be a cruel blow indeed to Moriarty. The professor rarely likes to admit that he has a heart in anything more than the most literal sense and would ordinarily likely scoff at the idea of heartache, but even so... the thought of losing Moran's close companionship, of having to settle for seeing him rarely, then perhaps hardly ever at all, causes a pang of almost physical pain to strike him somewhere through the area of his chest.

He takes a step backwards, as if withdrawing from Johnstone can keep such negative thoughts at bay. What foolishness, he chides himself. Moran adores him, he knows that. More importantly he accepts Moriarty for what he can give him, never condemning him for what he cannot provide. The colonel is devoted to him and would do nothing to cause him pain. _But what if he can't help it,_ asks that niggling doubting voice deep down. _What if one day he comes to realise he needs far more than you can give to him? What if he leaves you for another, even if he is sorry to do so? What if he marries?_

Moriarty turns away sharply. “I'm sorry,” he says to Johnstone. “I... have to go.”

He says his goodbyes to Morrison and his new wife hurriedly, claiming a severe headache as the reason for his rather sudden departure.

“You do look rather pale, old man,” Morrison remarks, giving Moriarty a jovial pat on the arm that makes the professor flinch slightly. “Perhaps though you just had rather too much bubbly, what?” He laughs at this, and Moriarty manages a faint smile which becomes more of a grimace as he turns away.

As he departs he can hear Morrison and his wife and their cohorts laughing, enjoying the party. Johnstone though still remains off to the side, leaning back against the wall, having procured a fresh glass of champagne from some passing waiter. His expression shows something that is part wistful, part contemptuous as he gazes towards the married couple. So fixed is he on them he does not even notice Moriarty leave, something for which the professor is grateful.

During the carriage ride home he tries to keep his mind firmly off the thoughts introduced into it by Johnstone, trying to run through a complicated mathematical equation to keep his doubts and fears at bay. But even Moriarty, as controlling and controlled as he may be, is not always able to keep the darker thoughts from intruding.

_What if one day it is Moran's wedding you are attending, with you being merely his best man, having to smile and pretend that you are happy for him, happy for his beaming bride, whilst a part of you is quietly dying inside? You will be left behind; you will be the one acting with such bitterness and sorrow as that poor drunken fellow Johnstone._

Arriving home, after hanging up his coat and setting aside hat and gloves, he retreats to his study. He has some of his students' work to look at, which should distract him for an hour or so at least and hopefully will successfully push all other thoughts out of his mind.

 

~

It has been a profitable afternoon and Moran now saunters home from his club, flushed with success (and flushed a little from the drink also), a wad of banknotes stowed away inside his jacket pocket. Perhaps that is why the little girl with the tray of flowers calls out to him. No doubt many of her best customers are gentlemen tipsy enough to think handing over money for the slightly wilted little bunches of flowers is a splendid idea.

“Flowers, sir?” she calls as he passes. “Posies for your sweetheart, penny a bunch!”

Moran stops, drawing back and turning to regard her. Not more than ten, thin and grubby, wearing a brown dress far too big for her, unevenly cut down and crudely hemmed around the bottom and pulled in around her waist with a broad length of ribbon, with a roughly knitted green woollen shawl around her shoulders. Her dark hair hangs in dirty curls around her pallid face as she looks up at him through dark eyes.

“For my sweetheart, hmm?” he says with a smile, stooping down slightly. “And what makes you think, poppet, that I have a sweetheart?”

She grins up at him. “'Andsome fella like you, got to 'ave a sweetheart.” She holds up the tray of flowers for his closer inspection. “Go on, sir, only a penny a bunch.”

Moran, never unkind to children even at his worst, is in a good mood. He puts a hand into his pocket and produces a handful of coins. “I'll take 'em all,” he announces, holding out the handful of money to the girl, who eyes it warily, expecting a trick somewhere. There are a few pennies but also multiple coins of silver, even a half crown – clearly far more than the paltry pennies being asked for her remaining stock.

“I can't sir, that's too much.”

“Nonsense.” Moran takes her hand, turns it palm upright and drops the coins into it, then abruptly sweeps up the little bunches of flowers tied with rushes into one larger bunch.

“Sir, I... Thank you!” She stares up at him still appearing slightly dazed.

Moran is about to walk away when he pauses and turns back to her. “Here,” he says, plucking a single flower from one of the bunches. He tucks its stem carefully behind her ear. “You keep the prettiest flower for yourself.” And then he is wandering away, humming softly to himself, carrying his bunch of flowers.

In some regards Moran is scrupulously honest and loyal. In others he cannot help but cheat, not always doing so every single time so but from time to time being unable to resist the compulsion to do so. He need not rely on such things any more of course as he has his income from Moriarty, who pays him well both for his skills and discretion. The professor frequently even pays for other things for him, outlays Moran might expect to have to pay himself – their suppers in fine restaurants, even some of his clothing. Expenses, the professor called it, when Moran questioned it. He accepts this without argument nowadays. At first he was wary of such behaviour, thinking there an ulterior motive behind it. But he came to grasp simply that Moriarty likes paying for him; that it makes him happy, which was good enough reason for Moran. It is not as if Moriarty dictates everything Moran is allowed to eat or wear, nor as if Moran must go begging to the professor every time he needs money to buy even the most trivial of items.

But he still does not wish to feel like a kept man, wholly dependent on the professor for money, even though his salary is kept separate from the money in the professor's own bank accounts. It does not hurt to acquire a little money from other sources. Besides, if he did not continue to cheat at cards he might grow bored, at least during the times he has no tasks to carry out for Moriarty. Better the cheating than some of the other things he _could_ have used to occupy his time.

 

~

Moriarty has been in his study for an hour and a quarter when he hears the front door open, followed by the murmur of voices in the hall – Moran's and their maid's. Shortly after this there is a soft rap on the study door. Moriarty rises from his chair, moving away from the desk to stride over towards the door. Upon opening it he sees Moran standing there, leaning against the wall and holding a variety of bunched flowers.

“How was the wedding?” the colonel asks, noting that aside from the addition of his pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, Moriarty is attired much the same as when he went out.

“It went perfectly well.” Moriarty steps aside slightly, indicating to Moran that he is allowed to enter.

Moran strolls in, glancing across at the papers on the desk before settling himself in the spare chair as Moriarty returns to sit in his own seat.

“You had a successful afternoon, I see,” Moriarty remarks. “How many gullible young men did you fleece this time?”

“Only a couple.” Moran does not trouble to question how Moriarty knows this before he has shown him the money – perhaps it is his demeanour or the faint bulge in his jacket pocket from the stash of notes, or perhaps it is something as trifling as the slightest of creases in his trousers that give him away. He grins as he puts his hand into his inner jacket pocket, pulling out a sheaf of banknotes. He sets these down on the desk, drawing a small smile out of the professor. “Didn't even have to cheat, much. One of 'em was far too distracted by my good looks to pay proper attention to his cards.”

Moriarty's smile fades as he drops his gaze.

Moran leans forward slightly. “You all right?”

“Yes, perfectly fine.”

As the professor scribbles something on one of the sheets of paper in front of him, Moran reaches out and places his hand over Moriarty's. “Something's obviously botherin' you, or you'd have gone and got changed before coming in here.”

Moriarty looks up again. “It's nothing, honestly.”

 “Professor.”

“It it just.. I felt rather sorry for the best man, that is all. A moment of foolish sentimentality on my part, nothing more.” Moriarty sets down his pen.

“Sorry for him why?”

“The fact that he was – as he sees it - losing his closest friend to a wife seemed to strike him a rather hard blow, and I suppose... rather stupidly... for a moment or two perhaps I considered how I might feel in his position, were you to take a wife also.”

Moran squeezes Moriarty's hand. “I'm not gonna leave you for a wife.”

“What if you meet someone else who can...” Moriarty still cannot bring himself to speak of love even now. “Who is attracted to you as you are to them?”

Moran sighs, for they have gone over such ground before. Moriarty's doubts – not about Moran's loyalty but about his own ability to keep his lover fulfilled - tend to surface during his more melancholic moods. “Even if I met someone who liked me that way, that don't mean I'd feel the same for them, or that I'd give you up, and certainly not that I'd marry 'em even if legally I was able to. I wouldn't. You're what I want – _who_ I want.” He smiles, and the professor manages a weak smile in return.

“What are they for?” Moriarty asks, nodding towards the flowers.

“I was a bit drunk when I bought 'em,” Moran admits with a laugh. “Still...” He holds the flowers out towards Moriarty. “Posies for my sweetheart. That is to say... I mean...” His cheeks flush.

Moriarty takes the flowers from him and leans back in his chair. “Your sweetheart?” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“That's what the girl selling 'em said.”

“And you thought of me when she did,” Moriarty says - a statement, not a question.

“I, er...” Moran lowers his gaze almost guiltily. It seems rather silly now, now that he has sobered up more.

But Moriarty smiles again as he lifts the flowers to smell them. “I'm flattered, Moran.”

Moran leans on the desk, tilting his head to regard the professor. “Why don't I take you out for dinner tonight? My treat.”

“It's not necessary for you to do that.”

“It's not _necessary_ for us to do a lot of things,” Moran points out. “We still do 'em. Anyway, you pay for dinner every other time, but let me treat you for once.” He raps his knuckles upon the banknotes. “I can make use of my ill-gotten gains.”

Behind his bunch of flowers, Moriarty smiles again, more broadly now. “Are you _courting_ me, Sebastian?”

Moran grins. “ _Maybe_.”

“Well then.” Moriarty half-suppresses his smile as he hands the flowers back to Moran. “You had best take these and put them in some water.”

“All right.” Moran scrapes back his chair and stands up, clasping the flowers in one hand and picking up the money with the other, stuffing it back into his jacket pocket. He heads towards the door but pauses there with his right hand resting on the handle. “So, was that a yes then to me taking you out for dinner?” he enquires, glancing back towards the professor, who has his head bent over his work again.

Moriarty scribbles something else on a paper before looking up over the tops of his reading glasses at the colonel. “Yes,” he says, with the faintest trace of a smile still playing over his lips. “It was a yes.”

 


End file.
